


sweet tooth

by cryingat7am



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Makoto is a Lit teacher and that's all i wanted canonically but woe is me, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), References to Depression, kyoani has forsaken me, past Haru/Sousuke, the relationship was toxic but i love Sousuke and he is a good boy they just did not work, this isn't your grandma's coffee shop au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24677332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryingat7am/pseuds/cryingat7am
Summary: His impossibly bright green eyes lit up even further, if it were possible, on finding his order on the board and that’s probably what made the memory stick. Such a large man, and he ordered one of the most indulgent drinks on their menu.
Relationships: Nanase Haruka/Tachibana Makoto
Kudos: 5





	1. day one

**Author's Note:**

> as of... everything posted so far, this is 1) old and b) unfinished. as where i was going with this fic is completely lost to me, along with no longer being in the fandom, it's going to stay that way unfortunately. that said, knowing that, if you still wish to read, be my guest and enjoy if you choose to!

\---05:43---  
  


It’s somewhere around five-thirty when the sun begins to rise, squeezing through the gaps in the blinds to streak his comforter in meek light. The brightening room goes wholly unnoticed, Haruka sleeping soundly with quiet breaths, all until the high and fast tone of his phone’s alarm begins to go off and the ancient model adds to the racket with how it vibrates against the wood of his bedside table. He groans into the pillow half-heartedly attempting to smother him and automatically reaches over to put an end to the ruckus.

Forcing an eye open to confirm the time, he can’t help but notice how the lines of light line up with the others on his arm and decides, yeah, it’s definitely time to get up.  
  


\---06:37---  
  


Water drips from his hair onto his face as he stands before the mirror after his bath, silently appraising himself as he drags a hand along his freshly shaven jaw.

Maybe Sousuke’s boyfriend—Rin?—was right. Maybe he did look at least a _little_ better. Like he actually ate, like he actually slept. There was no helping how pale he still was, though. His only real friends were out taking the world of competitive swimming by storm, and why spend time outdoors, alone, surrounded by people who either couldn’t give less of a shit or cared way too much for a stranger when he could be here, at home? Besides, it’s not like he cares. It probably contrasts nicely with his dark hair, which is honestly beginning to get a little scraggly.

Maybe, if Haruka feels up to it after work, he’ll go have it cut.  
  


\---06:55---  
  


His stomach full of reheated mackerel, rice, and miso soup, Haruka pushed through the Employee’s Only door into the café with five minutes to spare. Living only two blocks down from his job was both a stroke of sheer luck and extremely too convenient. While he could realistically procrastinate leaving for work until the very last second, it also obviously meant he was by default the one to be called upon for… well, literally almost anything, according to his boss. He’s come in before _just_ to reach the napkin refills when Nitori was still new and had no idea where the step ladder was.

Not that he minds it too much.

Securing his apron’s tie around his waist, he shoulders the two-way door out into the store front and pushes up the sleeves of his undershirt, though not quite all the way, wondering when—if ever—he’ll get used to the smell of coffee.  
  


\---11:17---  
  


“What’re you two whispering about,” he says more than asks, refilling the pastry display with what had been depleted during the breakfast time rush.

Both Ryuugazaki and Nitori jump, whipping around with similarly startled expressions at having been caught huddled together like a pair of gossiping high school girls. Ryuugazaki appeared more embarrassed, probably ashamed of what he considered ‘unprofessional conduct’, and Nitori looked downright _scared_.

“N-Nanase-san…! We, we were just…”

“It – it is nothing of importance, Nanase-san! Just silly nonsense. We apologize for lollygagging and will get back to work immediately!”

Haruka’s brows furrow as he frowns. “I’m not mad,” he states in a tone that probably says just the opposite. But it’s true, what he said. They’re not particularly busy at the moment, no customers waiting to be served, and so it’s not like anyone is slacking off excessively. “Just tell me.”

The younger baristas both look nervous to do so and even exchange nervous glances to one another as if asking themselves, ‘is it _really_ all right?’ But before he had the chance to threaten them with freezer organization duty, Nitori, surprisingly enough, spoke up.

“Do you see that customer, there? I-in the flannel?” he asks in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in close and trying to point out who he meant as discreetly as possible.

Following the imaginary line from Nitori’s fingertip, his eyes did indeed meet a man’s back covered in noticeably red plaid. Offhandedly, he couldn’t help but think he’d seen Sousuke’s boyfriend in that exact shirt.

He nods. “Mm-hm.”

“Well…” Nitori pauses and, for a moment, it feels searching before he glances from his peripheral and sees the silver-haired young man’s cheeks colored pink. “He’s pretty attractive, isn’t he?”

Haruka nearly wonders out loud how it’s possible to deduce that from this angle, but then his attention catches on the parka neatly folded over the back of the man’s chair and its green color makes him remember. He was tall—taller than himself, and he was considered above average height, so that made this man practically a _giant_ —with the kind of gentle demeanor he’s only ever experienced around puppies. His impossibly bright green eyes lit up even further, if it were possible, on finding his order on the board and that’s probably what made the memory stick. Such a large man, and he ordered one of the most indulgent drinks on their menu. Tachibana—he recalled from taking his order—probably still lives at home, loves animals and hates anything remotely scary.

“… Yeah, I guess.”

They’re all momentarily distracted back into working when the entry door jangles open noisily, two bright-haired young men bursting in. Neither look like they own a brush or a comb and they are smooshed against one another at the side, closest hands intertwined as they scan the practically empty café with what seems to be baited breath. But because it is so desolate the blond quickly finds their apparent target and makes no particular effort to be quiet.

“Mako-chan!”

“… Makoto-san!!”

The energetic couple trot their way to the table occupied only by none other than the subject of Ryuugazaki, Nitori and his gossiping, and briefly they relax from the prospect of taking and preparing two new orders. The shorter of them seems relieved even further and it doesn’t escape him how his soft blue eyes return to the large brunet.

“If you think he’s _that_ cute, just ask him out,” Haruka intones as he returns to what he had been doing—what he _should’ve_ been doing and thus would already be _done_.

He can hear Ryuugazaki’s noise of utter indignation, sure there’s a look matching it sent his way, but he knows for sure Nitori rolls that way. In fact, it’s the only direction he’s interested in going. They’re both well aware of that, but it appears Ryuugazaki isn’t ever going to quite get used to just how blunt he is about things.

When it’s been silent for far too long, he looks their direction only after finishing with overlapping the danishes and finds himself meeting two equally disbelieving faces. “… What.”

Nitori only smiles after a minute, and maybe it’s a little sad, but he shakes his head with a soft laugh and turns to mind their work station on the back wall. Ryuugazaki is more helpful, but only marginally.

“Nanase-san,” the bespectacled young man begins, replenishing what utensils he can with the stash kept under the front counter, and Haruka finds it fitting he’s studying to become a professor because he already knows he’s in for a lecture. “You have obviously not noticed it for yourself. But, that man—“

“Tachibana?” 

This seems to amuse Ryuugazaki, which serves to only irritate him. “Yes, Tachibana-san. He has been stealing glances your direction ever since sitting down.”  
  


\---13:24---  
  


And after that, despite the flush that traitorously started at the prospect of being _checked out_ , his number one goal was to yank down his sleeves—both, just for good measure—from bunched just below the elbow once Ryuugazaki disappeared to the back for more cups. If either he or Nitori took notice of the change, well, neither mentioned a single word about it to him.

Even following Tachibana— _the customer_ , damn it—and company’s departure, Haruka kept the hems of his sleeves close to wrist-level as possible.

The only, and greatest, relief was his anxiety walking straight out the door as the trio had.  
  


\---18:20---  
  


Perched on his couch, in front of the television with a beer clutched between his hands as he awaited the next new episode of the sea documentary he was following to air, he idly recalled the last real time he’d gone out in a t-shirt without anything under it.

 _Last year,_ he remembered, head falling against the back rest. He stared blankly at the ceiling, catching pieces of an infomercial playing. _Just after the last ones healed._

Haruka always kept them covered while there were still bandages, during the healing process until they no longer looked so angry or obvious. Once it was just a reminder of what had been there at some point or another, he couldn’t bring himself to care less who saw or what they happened to think about it. It didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter, until it did.

Blowing neatly trimmed strands of hair from his sight in a sigh, he refocused his attention to the TV and took a sip of his beer.


	2. day two and three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because there’s no way, there is just no way, that this man he’s encountered only twice, now, is asking for a tentative date time. It’s not possible, it shouldn’t be, yet with the way his head is ducked whilst he blushes like some shoujo protagonist, eyes trained on some nonexistent spot on the far wall, Haruka knows that’s exactly what this is.

\---11:31---

A couple of nondescript days pass by normally, and just as he’s beginning to anticipate the weekend that excitement shatters with the jingling of the entrance bells. _The customer_ , Tachibana, is once more standing in the quaint establishment, this time wearing a thinner-looking jacket and accompanied by a backpack. He’s also adorned a sheepish smile, and _this_ time Haruka takes notice of the way it’s directed at him.

‘ _You have obviously not noticed it for yourself. But, that man has been stealing glances your direction ever since sitting down._ ’

As Ryuugazaki’s words ring true, he is so very tempted to nudge Nitori forward toward the counter that Tachibana, too, has finally decided to approach. That had to be an easier option than dealing with this man himself. Merely his _presence_ caused a curiously intense struggle between intrigue and unease, and why should it when all he’s done is take the brunet’s order? Surely that couldn’t be healthy—it would be better to not get involved at all and just—

‘ _What, you’re running away?!_ ’

His stomach feels sick from the knot tying itself there, chest tight with something he thought he ripped free of a while ago. Forcing his suddenly leaden limbs to move, he automatically takes up the spot in front of the register and lifts his head so not to be _completely_ rude.

_I never ran away then, and I’m not starting now._

“Good afternoon, Nanase-san,” the tall man says once he notices he’s being helped. He looks—and sounds, even—much too happy considering the incredibly average circumstances. Ridiculous as it is, and stupid as it is to admit, the frankness helps to gather the skeletons that have fallen from the closet. Or maybe it’s just the familiar normality of work that’s doing it.

“Afternoon… Tachibana-san,” Haruka adds as an afterthought and immediately both looks forward to the next time he’s able to do it and immensely regrets even thinking that was a good idea. Because, if he thought the man looked pleased before, now he looks absolutely ecstatic and he doesn’t think anyone so towering with such broad shoulders should have any right.

But he makes no remark on having been remembered and instead looks up at the blackboard behind him. It takes all of a few seconds before he chuckles, shrugging as he digs into a pocket for what Haruka assumes to be his wallet. “I’m not sure why I even bothered to look, honestly.”

“What I had the last time, please.”

Just as Tachibana notices the severe lack of information, opens his mouth to further clarify—looking much too bashful to be legal—he takes the offered bill wordlessly and inputs the order. Embarrassingly enough he recalls it all too well, the richest thing they have for the last person on this Earth who should enjoy something so sweet.

“’Tachibana’?” He asks after counting out the man’s change and handing it back to him, distractedly noting how his hands were bigger, seemingly a little more calloused.

The brunet considers it for a minute, head tilted in thought, before he lifts those vibrant eyes of his and offers a shy grin. “’Makoto’.”  
  


\---12:15---

It’s from the very moment he walks out to retake his place behind the front counter that Haruka catches quick movement from the corner of an eye and his gaze follows suit. Tachibana—… _Makoto_ approaches him rather pointedly, lips parting to speak and his focus migrating down to the pastry display between them as color tints his cheeks while whatever it is he has to say fails him.

“Is there something you need help with?” He asks in the most professional sigh possible after the hesitant silence has continued for one too many beats. A young woman shortly steps in and his attention shifts to welcome her. There’s not too much of a reply, she seems too absorbed on making a decision on what to order, so he figures he can wait for the hesitating man a few more minutes.

“Ah,” Makoto, too, has apparently taken notice of the new customer and realized that yes, Haruka _is_ still working. He looks torn for a full few seconds before speaking back up, “Nanase-san. This… Wow, this may sound _really_ forward, and maybe a little weird, but… When is your lunch break, normally?”

He blinks. He would really like to believe maybe he’s reading way too far into this. That he is taking the question completely out of context and it’s not at all what he thinks it to be. Because there’s no way, there is just no way, that this man he’s encountered only twice, now, is asking for a tentative date time. It’s not possible, it shouldn’t be, yet with the way his head is ducked whilst he blushes like some shoujo protagonist, eyes trained on some nonexistent spot on the far wall, Haruka knows that’s exactly what this is.

_Oh my god._

“Don’t have one,” he answers, truthful and not merely avoiding a conclusion he’s not sure how he feels about. He notices the woman who had entered not all too long ago close in on the counter and knows he’s got to wrap this up quick. “Not officially. We get one, but, when we take it is up to us.”

Heaving a sigh at the poorly hidden crestfallen look the taller wore, he whipped a finger out to point his direction. “Don’t leave.”

Before he caught the full force of the man’s unabashedly bemused expression, Haruka attended to his job with just about as much enthusiasm as he usually did—which is to say with almost none at all. He couldn’t be too unpleasant. He hasn’t yet been fired, after all. And he’s apparently caught the attention of a relatively attractive young man in only—

“Yazaki-san,” he calls with a discreet burning in his cheeks as the order is finished. Handing over the drink—it fits her, he decided, something light with a hint of citrus—and receiving her thanks with a light bow of his head, he finds Makoto still waiting, albeit checking his wrist watch and looking nervous for a whole other set of reasons.

_If you have some place to be, just go already._

“Makoto-san,” Haruka beckons, and he’s never used honorifics exactly like he’s supposed to. Even close to how he’s supposed to, really. There are customers and his boss, sure, but those are no brainers unless he wants to be out of a job. But ‘Makoto’, _just_ ‘Makoto’, sounds much too familiar for him to be comfortable with.

“Come by during slow hours, between breakfast and lunch. That’s usually when I take my break.”

  
\---19:04---

If he’s honest with himself—which, he mostly is—Haruka isn’t sure what he is. Where sexuality is concerned, at least. He knows well enough he’s an adult male human, even as much as he still sometimes wishes he was a merman, or a dolphin.

He considers this while mechanically chopping vegetables for dinner, the portable stereo he has shoved in the corner playing the album of a band he’d forgotten about liking. He’s dated a few girls casually, and two of them he’s even been in relationships with. He and Chiguse, if his memory serves him correctly, had been official nearly two full years. And while he never really actively pursued them, he’s crushed on just as many men. Though he had never really known any of them personally, so it’s fair to say they were all purely based on physical attraction.

Then, what’s that make him? Bisexual for having an interest in both sexes? Gay for having more interest, more experience with his same gender? Because as much as he fooled around with his girlfriends, Sousuke has so far been the only one he’s actually been with… intimately. Not that he thinks it makes a huge difference. Having a cock shoved up your ass is neither Earth-shattering nor especially pleasant. Granted, it’s not exactly horrible, either. He’s pretty indifferent about it—about sex in general, really.

 _Isn’t there a word for that?_ He thinks, scraping the carrots and onion off the cutting board and into a bowl of sauce to marinade. _Asexual?_

Maybe that’s the term best suited for him. It’s also entirely possible he’s just not been with the ‘right one’, yet. Haruka snorts at the thought.

Right now, all he really cares about is getting this food cooked. He’s starving.  
  


\---

\---10:15---

Haruka doesn’t see Makoto again until Tuesday, and that makes it an exact week since the man first stepped up to order the drink on their menu made of more chocolate than coffee. He’s not entirely sure how he managed to retain that detail, or why it is he did. All he’s aware of is that it makes him a little irritated, a little embarrassed.

He’s emerging from the kitchen through the two-way door, a third of himself covered in a flour and sugar mixture as a result of helping Nitori prepare a new batch of muffins, when he spots the familiarly huge figure. He’s tucked into one of their few booths, into the corner where the seat and front window meet, and there’s a book expertly balanced in one hand, his other supporting his jaw. It’s tempting to go over now and greet him, but there’s a short line of customers that have built up which needs attending to first.

He calls Ryuugazaki from the back—really, Nitori will be fine on his own watching the mixer for, at most, _ten minutes_ —and the people are provided with their food and drink efficiently. The younger barista finishing the last drink ordered behind him, he lifts the hinged section of counter in his way and nears the table occupied by only the brunet and his bag.

“’Where the Sidewalk Ends’?” He questions with a head tilted to read the English printed along the book’s spine.

“Nanase-san…!”

“Looks like a children’s book,”

Comically wide green eyes blink with confusion before slipping down to the book in his grasp, as if he’d been unaware of holding it this entire time and only just now realized there was something in his hand, before a reminiscing smile touched his lips and his now impossibly softer gaze returned to Haruka.

“It is. It’s really popular in America,” Makoto informs, a finger between the pages holding his place in the tome as he rests it on the tabletop. “… Or, so my colleague tells me. She teaches my class English and, since mine isn’t the best, she recommended it to me.”

 _Yet another incongruity,_ he thinks with enough exasperation to surprise himself because what should it matter? So what if the image of this hulking man’s figure doesn’t exactly mesh with the idea he teaches elementary schoolers? What of his apparent sweet tooth? Why should that— _any_ of that—concern him?

“You’re a teacher?” Haruka asks for clarification, because maybe his guess is completely off. His class could very well be made up of junior high students, where it’s more common for English to be introduced. Or perhaps he works at a high school that offers beginner’s lessons, like his own had.

“6th year Elementary Language Arts,” the brunet relays with a sheepish grin, and he has to wonder how often that catches people off-guard for him to answer so bemusedly. The expression shifts, as does his body towards the opposite seat, and he gestures towards it with his free hand. “But, you should sit down.”

He vaguely shakes his head, straightening up from where he’d unknowingly propped himself at the hip against the table. “I’m not on break,” he says in something akin to a sigh. The arms folded across his chest tighten as anxiety begins to curl in his stomach and he really realizes that _this is actually going to happen_. “Just came to ask if there’s anything you wanted.”

“Oh! I’m sorry for keeping you, then,” Makoto apologizes a little hurriedly, looking unfairly sincere about it. The timid smile that follows can only be categorized as ‘cute’, and—wait, what? “I’m fine for now, thank you.”

Haruka can’t whip around fast enough, and briefly he fears it will come across as insanely rude, but his mortification drives him not to care. All he wants is to disappear into the employee’s restroom, splash the coldest water manageable into his face, and ask his reflection _what the fuck are you even thinking, Nanase?_ That’s all he wants presently, and he doesn’t think it’s asking for all that much, but the gods above must feel differently because before he has made it back behind the front counter that soft voice he’s becoming uncomfortably familiar with calls out and though it’s hesitant with no ill will he can’t help but to feel frustrated.

“N-Nanase-san!” He stops, body turning minutely and head doing so more to favor the other with a cursory glance to let him know _yeah, I’m listening_. “Um… Do you… have an idea of when you might take your break?”

He considers this. He’s worked here for a long enough time to have a general sense for the ebb and flow of customers, for when the tide will rise to its highest and then recede. It isn’t an exact science, the times change daily and there are always freak bouts of unexpected activity, but it’s safe to say he’s got a good feel for it nonetheless.

He really _could_ offer the brunet a reasonable estimate, accurate by give or take fifteen minutes. But instead Haruka chooses to face forward, lazily lift a shoulder in some semblance of a shrug and return to what he’s paid to do.  
  


\---11:44---  
  


“… What is it you like to do, Nanase-san?”

Haruka can only blink, hesitating in another bite of his sandwich. They’re sat at the table Makoto laid claim to, which unnerved him. Normally, he’d never even think to consider taking a spot to eat lunch in the very café which he worked. The concept felt more than a little awkward. But the only other viable option in his book would be to introduce the tall stranger to His Usual Spot, and just the thought of that made him even more uneasy.

By the time he looked up from the flaky croissant of the makeshift tuna salad in his possession—‘makeshift’ regarding that it was mackerel rather than tuna—the brunet had continued with an anxious yet reassuring smile.

“Me, I like to read. Older stuff, mostly. A lot of it’s what you’d consider ‘classical literature’… Pretty boring, huh?”

There that self-depreciation is again, this time taking the form of a soft laugh that escapes the man across from him as he works at the crust of his own home-made sandwich, peeling it away from the rest of the bread in varying bits and longer strips. Though whether it’s really avoidance to eating it or just a nervous habit, Haruka really isn’t sure.

He says nothing of it, or the demeaning behavior.

Instead, he takes to thinking of what it is he ‘likes to do’. It’s not really a question he’s asked often, if ever, and so he has to take a moment to consider it. ‘What he likes to do’. He likes living, generally. He likes eating when it involves his favorite foods. He likes his baths after work. But, he figures those are all ordinary things most of the population enjoys, as well. They’re too general and vague.

“I swim,” he comes up with, eventually, and they both have finished a good majority of their respective sandwiches. “I draw, sort of, and cook, too, I guess.”

“Oh,” Makoto crows as though no abnormally long pause had taken place, flushing modestly as the muffled sound of it reminds him he’s still got food in his mouth. He looks thoroughly apologetic as the back of a hand comes to hide what he’d been in the middle of, chewing, and only continues once he’s done and swallowed.

“So you’re the artistic type, then?”

Another question, another answer of which he has no clue. While, yes, he’d always tended towards creative ventures, especially as a child and a stressed high school student avoiding his responsibilities, he never quite considered himself an artist. It never crossed his mind to, and he can’t say he feels he fits the description.

Allowing himself a shrug to respond with, he expects the tall brunet in the seat on the other side of the table to fall silent as a good majority of people do when he acts so impassive. It never bothers him, he gets why no one would really try all that hard to continue such a one-sided conversation. He thinks he prefers it, anyway, not being one too big on talking or long talks or relationships. Life’s been much easier, much simpler since all he’s had to worry about has been himself. It’s something he’s started growing used to.

So, when he hears Makoto chuckle again, it takes him off-guard, the feeling neither entirely pleasant nor unpleasant.

“I’m jealous!” Makoto declares with not an ounce of actual envy, and he tries not to look at the man as though he’s grown a second head. There isn’t any way someone could want any part of him or his life. It’s not as though he’s particularly hard on himself, or hates the way he’s come to live, but he’s… _it’s_ all ordinary. No different than the next person, or the one after that. There isn’t anything of which to be jealous. Yet, here this customer, this stranger, this… acquaintance is, saying that is exactly what he feels. “I don’t have a creative bone in my body. Which, I guess isn’t bad in itself… But, I think it affects my ability to cook. Or, rather, lack thereof.”

He stops to quirk a nervous, sheepish grin and lowers his voice as if about to tell some huge secret. “I’m _that_ person. The kind that can burn water.”

“You can’t burn water,” Haruka mumbles after the briefest pause, the look the other had directed his way strangely taking him off-guard in a way he was both uncertain of and was not entirely sure he was comfortable with.


End file.
